


Expectation

by oh_fudgecakes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Basically Viktor is sulking because he's a child and he loves surprising people, But no one is ever surprised at him anymore, He thinks Yuuri is surprising, I am not recovered, I marathoned YoI yesterday, Impulsive reckless and spontaneous Viktor, M/M, My first offering to the fandom, Please have fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8594284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_fudgecakes/pseuds/oh_fudgecakes
Summary: All Viktor strives for is to surprise people.Yuuri is surprising, and Viktor is very, very fascinated.





	

“What if,” Viktor muses, “I did a quintuple next year?”

Yuri sits up a little, blinking the sleep from his eyes as the bus goes over a particularly harsh bump. Viktor can’t help the fond chuckle as a little blonde lock is dislodged. He reaches out to tuck it back behind the boy’s ear, but Yuri slaps his hand away with a little _tsk._

“If you did a _what?”_

Yuri’s voice is flat, unamused.

“A quintuple,” Viktor repeats indulgently, “A quintuple _anything,_ really— but maybe not a quintuple axel because I don’t know if I could go five and a half rotations. Maybe a quintuple flip? If I work on it from now till the next Prix, it’s possible.”

Yuri closes his eyes.

“Viktor,” he says slowly, “It’s _not_ possible. _Science_ says its not possible.”

“In what sense?”

“In the sense that the human body is not _physically capable_ of doing a quintuple, Viktor! You’d have to be about as thin as a pencil!”

Yakov mumbles a little in his seat from the back of the bus, disturbed by the loudness of Yuri’s voice. They both hold their breaths. He gets cranky upon being woken, and a cranky Yakov is never a good Yakov.

A snort, a little twitch of his upper lip— and then he settles. A moment later, the engine-like drone of his snoring resumes.

Yuri turns back to Viktor, eyes narrowed.

“Either way,” he hisses, “Quintuples aren’t possible, and you ought to be glad Yakov hasn’t heard you going on about them. You know how he feels about quintuples.”

Viktor is aware that Yakov, along with a great many other coaches, do not allow students to attempt quintuples— but since when had anything Yakov said ever _truly_ stopped him? What Yuri said about the scientists though… that requires some thought.

The boy in question huffs a little, and then, probably figuring that Viktor has exhausted his reserve of ridiculous suggestions ( _really Viktor, Yuri thinks, quintuples?),_ he closes his eyes and lays his cheek on the pillow around his neck. Silence falls in the bus, uninterrupted save for the tinkling of gravel and the snoring of their rink-mates and coach. It’s actually smack in the middle of the day, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone from napping. Though, Viktor muses, that also could have been due to the turbulence on the flight back. Based on Yuri’s account, no one had slept very well. Viktor, on the other hand, had slept like a baby.

“Hey!” he says suddenly, “Maybe I could try a backflip! Someone did that in the Olympics once, I recall.”

Yuri jerks awake, and scowls deeply at him, looking for all the world like a grumpy kitten.

“Viktor,” he grits out, “That was once. In 1976. And it’s been banned by the International Skating Union ever since. It’s too dangerous.”

The ‘ _and you’re not young anymore’_ goes unspoken.

“Okay,” Viktor acquiesces, “But—“

“Viktor, _no._ ”

Viktor sighs, but when Yuri closes his eyes again, he decides to let it go. Little boys need their sleep, he knows, even if this little boy in particular is more of a little monster than a little boy. He chuckles quietly to himself.

“Sleep dreams, Yura,” he whispers, smoothing a hand over that small blond head.

Yuri doesn’t respond.

He’s fast asleep.

The sun shines clear over St. Petersburg today. Viktor leans his head back in his seat, closes his eyes, and lets the sway of the bus lull him gently into dreams of snow.  


* * *

  
 That’s just the start of it, really.

 

* * *

   
When Viktor was a little boy, he’d lived with his mother in a little village built entirely around a small garment factory. His father had lived and worked in another village seven miles away, one built around a plant that made cogs and screws. That was what Russia was like outside of the faraway cities, villages built around single factories, scattered sparsely over the wild, cold terrain. If the factory cut down on staff, then families would split, fathers would have to move. And so for most of his boyhood, the only thing he could remember of his father’s presence was in the envelopes of money he sent back once a month— the envelopes that had stopped abruptly when he was four.

“Your papa,” his mother had told him quietly when he’d asked, “Your papa has gone to be with God.”

From six in the morning to six in the evening, his mother would work in the garment factory. Sometimes she would sew until her fingers bled. In the evenings, he would wait for her outside of the factory and they would walk home together through the village market.

He would juggle fruits just to make her smile.

“Oh Vitya,” she’d laugh, shrieking in delight as he spun and tossed and twirled, “Oh, my little Vitya.”

It was winter all year around in that little village where he’d lived as a boy. Cold, bitterly cold, but full of warmth in all the ways that mattered. After dinner, his mother would bring him out beyond the borders of the village, out past the factory to a little lake by the gravel road, and teach him to skate.

“Before I had you,” she confided once, “I lived with my parents in St. Petersburg. I had piano lessons on Mondays and ballet on Wednesdays, but my favourite was skating on Fridays. Weekends were for family, but sometimes I’d sneak out to the rink to practice. It was all I did as a little girl: skate, and tell everyone who’d listen that one day I’d be the best figure skater Russia had ever seen.”

She hadn’t planned on him, he knew, but she loved him like she’d never loved anything else.

“Do you regret it?” he’d asked one day, quiet in the mist of the ice below their feet, “Do you regret having me?”

She’d taken him by both hands and twirled them around the lake.

“Oh Vitya,” she laughed whole-heartedly, “How could I? You were the best surprise of my life.”

He would go out on the ice every day after school, practicing what she had taught him again and again for hours, just to make her smile. He lived for the little gasps, the delight in her eyes when he nailed a trick he’d learnt in secret, or showed her a combination he’d perfected during the day.

“Were you surprised, mama?” he’d demand immediately after, “I learnt it just for you.”

“Every day is the best kind of surprise with you, my little Vitya,” she would say fondly.

The factory shut down just after his seventh birthday, and the entire village shut down along with it. For weeks, the women walked around the village lost, with pale, drawn faces and sunken eyes. Children stopped playing in the streets. The village was a hollowed out shell without the factory, and everyone from the adults to the children knew it.

His mother wrote desperate letters from morning to night. On the second week after the factory had shut down, she got a single letter in reply. It was sealed with wax and all, very fancy, and there was a name on it in dark black cursive.

“It’s your grandmama,” his mother had said blankly, “But I hadn’t written to her.”

“Open it, open it, open it!” Viktor had screamed, jumping up and down in excitement. His _grandmama!_ He hadn’t ever met the woman. He’d known somewhere in the back of his boyish mind that he’d had one, but it had never really been a _thing._

His mother opened the letter and read it. When she was done, she read it again, and then one more time for good measure. Finally, she turned to him.

“She and your grandpapa,” she whispers numbly, shell-shocked, “They want me to come back to live with them in St. Petersburg.”

She’d written back. He’d peeked a little, mostly because he had seen his name somewhere in there and couldn’t resist. _I have a son now. His name is Viktor, and his father is dead. Will you accept him as part of the family?_

On the third week after the factory had closed, a letter came that had made her cry and cry and cry. They packed their things the very same day, and she cried throughout it all. He had never seen his mother so _happy_ in his life.

“This is the best surprise God has given me,” his mother had told him tearfully as they packed his things into neat little boxes, “Since God gave me you.”  


* * *

   
The smack of body against ice echoes loud in the quiet of the rink. What little chatter there was dies immediately into absolute, deafening silence.

“Oh,” Viktor says into that silence, voice trembling a little, _“Ow.”_

“You _stupid boy!”_ Yakov thunders, skating rapidly toward him, “Stupid, _stupid_ boy! What did you think you were _doing?_ Did you forget that when you jump, your feet have to come down? What’s the matter with you?”

“I can’t feel my ankle,” Viktor just says numbly.

Yakov picks him up off the ice and sends him immediately to a doctor. For the entire ride, for the entire wait, he’s numb. When the doctor touches his ankle and he feels it only very faintly, he thinks he might cry. Finally, the doctor comes back with the diagnosis.

“Just a pinched nerve,” he says, “You’ll be alright to skate in two weeks, but no more jumps for _at least_ three. I’m going to refer you to a physiotherapist for follow-up.”

He almost kisses the doctor in joy.

Yakov just scoffs when he tells him the good news, but he can see that the bear of a man is relieved as well. Still, he braces himself for the inevitable yelling— that doesn’t come.

“Viktor,” the man begins hesitantly, pushing Viktor’s wheelchair slowly through the hospital, “Viktor, what happened?”

“Erm,” Viktor says.

“Don’t think that I’ve not noticed, you stupid boy. You’ve been in a slump. When you’re not in a slump, you’re doing stupid reckless things. What were you trying to do when you fell, and don’t you dare tell me that you accidentally botched the landing on a triple axel— a _triple axel,_ Viktor!”

“Well,” Viktor says slowly, “I thought I may attempt to land a quadruple axel in next year’s Prix.”

They stop abruptly, and Viktor turns to look at his coach. The look on Yakov’s face is indescribable.

“A quadruple axel.”

Viktor hesitates for just a moment.

“Yes?” he says tentatively.

Another long pause.

Yakov’s chest swells suddenly, and _now_ here comes the yelling.

“God _damn it,_ Viktor!” he roars, “No one’s ever landed a quadruple axel yet, and neither will you— you’re not young anymore, Viktor. You were lucky this time, but another fall like that could end your career. Don’t be such a damn fool!”

“I thought that maybe that could be the one thing no one in the audience would be expecting,” Viktor tells Yakov, very reasonably he might add, even though Yakov’s neck is swelling like a bullfrog, “I swear that they seem to expect everything else that I do. Oh, another quad, we expected that. Two quads in a row? We expected that too. Maybe I have to stop thinking about the quads and start thinking about, what has never ever been done before? Boy, no one will be expecting _that._ ”

“Why does it _matter_ what the audience expects, Viktor?” Yakov demands, exasperated, “Today, we are at the pinnacle of sports as we know it. The average finalist today is ten times better than the champions of my day. There’s not much room _left_ for sports to advance. We are at the _physical limits_ of the human body, Viktor. Let it be, and stop thinking about what the laypeople expect. They aren’t athletes. They don’t understand.”

Children’s laughter as they pass the paediatrician’s office. A little girl has her face pressed up against the glass of the door, gawking unashamedly at him. He is abruptly aware of what he looks like, in a wheelchair, being pushed along the corridor by his coach— and so he winks at her, blows a kiss like nothing’s wrong.

He can hear the delighted squeal even through the door.

“Maybe it’s not about _their_ expectations of me,” Viktor says, once they’re out of earshot, “Maybe it’s about _my_ expectations for myself. There wasn’t a _single_ gasp in the audience at the Prix, Yakov, not a single one. No one’s ever surprised anymore.”

“Expectations, expectations, expectations,” Yakov tuts, “All these expectations will be your ruin one day, Vitya, I swear to God.”  


* * *

   
A few weeks later, he wakes up from a mid-morning nap to see that he’s been tagged in a retweet by Mila, by Chris, by skaters he knows from all over the world. They are all retweeting the exact same video: _[Katsuki Yuuri] Tried to Skate Viktor’s FS Program [Stay Close to Me]_

He blinks.

“Who?”

Makkachin just whines in response and snuggles more tightly around his legs. He curls his toes into warm fur and Googles ‘Katsuki Yuuri’.

He recognises the face.

_A commemorative photo? Sure!_

It had been a year ago, after the Grand Prix, hadn’t it? The fan from the airport. He remembered because the boy had reacted so strangely. He’d looked like Viktor had just killed his dog, and Viktor had not expected that _at all._ He’d just been trying to be nice?

“Oh,” he says, when he sees the Wikipedia page, “He’s a professional skater.”

A pause.

“And he skated at the Finals.”

A pause.

Viktor slaps himself in the face. _God, no wonder he’d looked so insulted._ He had skated on the same ice as Viktor, one of the final six, and Viktor hadn’t recognised him, had thought he was just a fan.

“I’m an idiot, Makkachin,” he groans, prodding the poodle gently with his toe.

Makkachin huffs quietly, climbs up into his lap to escape his chilly feet, and goes back to sleep.

He reads the entire Wikipedia page on Katsuki Yuuri. The boy had been through a year of apparent failures, and Viktor couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten into the Prix Finals considering his dismal performance in his local Nationals. Stumbles and falls on basic moves? The press had not been kind to the boy for that. Come to think of it, he somewhat remembers the boy now. He’d flubbed all his jumps during the Finals: one touch-down after a triple axel, and then a full-on fall after a quad. Viktor had averted his eyes after that.

Still, he opens up his Twitter app and searches again for the video. He feels that he should at least watch it, maybe leave an encouraging comment or two for the boy to see. From what he could tell, the boy had retired early from figure skating and had returned home. It wouldn’t hurt anything to tell him to keep on trying, to keep on skating, even if only as a hobby.

He hits play.  
 

* * *

   
_The number you’ve reached is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone._

_Beep._

“Mama,” Viktor says over the phone, “I’m leaving Russia to become a coach. Take care, and I’ll see you in Moscow next year. I love you. Tell grandmama and grandpapa I love them too.”

 _Beep._  


* * *

  
The Katsuki Yuuri in that video was not like anything he’d expected.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I marathoned the whole of YoI last night and then I wrote fic. Even though I have a paper on Monday. Forgive me for any characterization errors, and please do offer concrit if there's something you don't agree with. I haven't exactly known these characters for long. There's still more to go that I will probably finish writing once my finals are done.
> 
> Basically, I was emotional because in the earlier episodes Yuri talks about how Viktor is just really keen on surprising people but no one's ever surprised anymore. And Yuuri is just... so reckless and impulsive and stubborn, and he just surprises Viktor left right and center. So when Viktor tells Yuuri that he's surprised him at the end of episode 7 that's just like... possibly the best praise Viktor could give anyone and I was emotional so I wrote fic.
> 
> (Before I go, Russian monotowns are a thing and I was very sad when I learnt about them because I've lived in the city all my life. Google it!)
> 
> Update: Ah, I forgot to add a note about all the ice-skating talk. So no one has actually done a quad axel in competition yet, because axels are slightly different from the other jumps. With axels, there's an extra half rotation. So a triple axel is three and a half rotations, a quadruple is four and a half. Non-axel quads are already very difficult, and pretty dangerous. In the anime, Yakov doesn't allow Yuri to do them for good reason. According to Google, when you land on a quad, you land at seven times your body weight which is terrifying. I for one have never even landed a double axel :').


End file.
